Ruin me (like every good tragedy) with the sharp of your teeth
by The Readers Muse
Summary: He was a human juggernaut of grief and rage. And knowingly or not, Negan had finally let him off his leash.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Walking Dead or The Addams Family. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

 **Authors Note #1 :** Crossover with the Addams Family, because fuck logic, that's why. Set in a post 7x01 AU. Could be a considered a sequel to my other work in this au/crossover universe: "Family Values (and the wonders of biology)." – In this AU Maggie goes back to the Alexandrian after a brief overnight stay at the Hilltop.

 **Disclaimer:** Grief/loss/healing, depression, adult language, canon appropriate violence, blood and gore, Eugene goes ham. Please keep in mind that this story will be dark and a bit sadistic in that 'Addams Family' way.

 **Ruin me (like every good tragedy) with the sharp of your teeth**

 _ **Chapter One**_

He swallowed the grit that'd settled between his teeth as Negan and his group pulled away, leaving them in the pluming dust and silence. Feeling the particles grate against the worn enamel of his teeth as he forced the building, animal rage that was threatening to burst out of him like a vengeful artery to bide its time.

Which only really left him with one option when it came to self-expression at this point in time. He willingly inhaled the iron taint on the inside of his palms as he pressed them against his face. Rocking slightly as Maggie and Rosita wrenched the air with terrible, hiccuping sobs even he couldn't find beautiful. Not this time.

Grief was contagious.

It was an infectious disease that lived, breathed and bred in salt-tainted humidity.

It tasted like an imbalance of ph and restless softness.

It looked like loss and felt like something worse.

And uncharacteristically, he _hated_ it.

It wasn't the deaths themselves that bothered him. Not really. He'd grown up on a steady diet where the flirtation with the other-side - both in terms of himself and the occasional enemy - was always a tantalizing possibility. Death had been something he and his family had always courted - respecting the idea from afar. Satisfied with the fact that someday was not merely a given, but when it came, an event meant to be _savored_.

But not them.

Not like this.

Not Abraham and Glenn.

 _They'd been his._

Worse, there'd been a distinct absence of virtue to each of their deaths.

A gross senselessness even he couldn't find it in him to embrace.

It had been wrong.

Inelegant and sickly.

He'd never met the cusping flirtation of a death where the outcome had been so unsatisfactory, no less two in one fell swoop. It had been undeserved and ill-timed. And he'd dealt with his fair share of raging sadists, thank you very much. Even his Great Grandfather Red-Hand Lutitus would've known better. Negan had turned what should have been a bittersweet parting into something to fear and rail against. Not savor. Not embrace. _But hate_.

Negan would pay for that offense.

Amongst others.

* * *

For the first time there hadn't been another option.

There'd been nothing he could do.

Not without the risk of more cost, at any rate.

By the time the Saviors had surrounded the RV, Negan's people already had Glenn, Daryl, Rosita and Michonne in chains out in the front of the crowd. Incentive for his good behavior, he supposed. And of course, it'd worked. He'd paused and they'd converged. Beating him over and over as he swallowed the pleasure-pain and instead gave them what they wanted.

He gave them what they expected with the sharp of his cries and his weak pleads for them to stop. _Oh, please! Stop. Stop! I don't- I won't try nothing. I promise._ All the while catching glimpses of the others - horror-drawn and struggling - through the sea of enemy legs.

It wasn't his fault.

Distantly he was aware of that.

But hell if it didn't feel like it.

* * *

By the time they limped back to Alexandria the rage building in the back of his mind needed an outlet. He was a swirling vat of poisonous, acidic color that needed release. To sink into something solid and metallic. Something he could take his time corroding and taking apart.

They'd lost Abraham. Glenn. And now Daryl.

Only Rick was still trembling.

 _They were all still trembling._

It reminded him, perhaps a bit too honestly, of the difference that existed between them. They were human. Breakable. Fragile. He was not. Not completely. He'd worked so hard to keep that part of himself hidden. To blend in and curtail some of his more obvious proclivities. At first it'd been a game, attaching himself to Abraham in the form of a well-needed lie. Only to have it evolve into something more. Becoming part of this distressingly normal little family, despite all odds. They didn't know he wasn't anything other than what he appeared. They didn't know what he was capable of. That he might have been able to stop it. Maybe. If he'd allowed himself to risk showing the same people he'd come to care about his true nature.

They'd been right all along.

He _was_ a coward.

But perhaps it was better that way.

Better for what came next.

He bared his teeth into the dark. Thinking about all the exquisite ways he could tear the man apart with his bare hands. Knowing that no matter what happened, he'd be able to get close enough to do it. The man didn't know him. Not yet. But he would. Soon. Until then he was the best and the worst kind of invisible.

Mother had always said he'd been the smart one.

* * *

He waited until everyone had turned off their lights and were pretending to sleep before he grabbed his pack – the dusty one he kept under the floorboards in the very corner of his room - and slipped through the gates into the welcoming dark.

There would be nothing particularly satisfying about what he was about to do.

Not with the cost that'd already been paid.

But he could ensure those deaths wouldn't be in vain.

It was the least he could do, after all.

It was time to get to work.

* * *

He had enough self-awareness to know the first part was a lie.

 _He was going to enjoy this._

For better or worse he wouldn't be what he was if he didn't.

That was the perverse trade off to raw ability, he supposed.

* * *

He'd give Negan this much, his main compound was actually not only remarkably hard to find, but also to gain entrance to. Undetected anyway. It took him half a week to locate the main stronghold. From there on, that's when the hard work started.

He ended up pulling something worthy of Hollywood to get inside. He stopped a wagon caravan from a fish farm that was bringing their semi-weekly tribute and took a chance.

He asked them who they'd lost. What Negan had taken. He asked them how long they'd been making this same journey and what Negan and his people would do if they had a bad month. He asked them if they thought things would ever stop. Ever get better. Then he unzipped his bag and showed them why he thought he could win.

The woman leading them just nodded. Looking at him with drawn, dead eyes that'd seen far too much before sending the three men with her into a grudging flurry of activity inside the middle wagon. He gave her his thanks and he told her if he failed they should go to Alexandria. That it would be safer there. She wouldn't. She didn't have the right smell to match the second, marginally deeper incline of her head before he clambered inside. But the words felt right leaving his lips anyway.

By the time he was safe inside the compound, tucked inside a storage room that was brimming over with every kind of food Alexandria could ever need, night had fallen and he was exactly where he needed to be.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – There will be three more chapters, stay tuned.

 **Reference:** We all know that those in the Addams clan aren't exactly normal. They love the idea of death and all morbid things. They can survive electrocution, massive explosions, like – anything really. So, I turned that into a biology thing. They are faster, stronger, more able to survive things that normal people generally wouldn't last a lick on. And they often look the part: Cousin It, Fester, Lumpy Adams, etc. In this crossover the idea is that Eugene is a distant relative of the Addam's Family.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Walking Dead or The Addams Family. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

 **Authors Note #1:** Crossover with the Addams Family, because fuck logic, that's why. Set in a post 7x01. Could be a considered a sequel to my other work in this au/crossover universe: "Family Values (and the wonders of biology)."

 **Disclaimer:** Grief/loss/healing, depression, adult language, canon appropriate violence, blood and gore, Eugene goes ham. Please keep in mind that this story will be dark and a bit sadistic in that 'Addams Family' way. *Please proceed with caution as this chapter includes references to non-con/dub-con with one of Negan's 'wives.'

 **Ruin me (like every good tragedy) with the sharp of your teeth**

 _ **Chapter Two**_

Surprisingly, after all the 'we are Negan' bullshit and the far-flung satellite groups, once inside the compound, finding Negan was like shooting fish in a barrel. Dead easy. All he had to do was look for the most elaborate, richly furnished room in the place and wait.

It didn't take long. Negan was a man that enjoyed his creature comforts. And people like that generally stuck to a routine when it came to keeping those hungers fed.

He didn't move when Negan slammed into the room laughing. Tugging along a terrified, hollow-eyed eyed brunette wearing a skimpy olive-green dress and a rash of pale, goose-flesh bruises.

He didn't move when Negan pointed towards the large, four poster bed that crowned the middle of the room like center stage with the thick of his index finger. Undoing his belt with a flippant jerk as he leaned Lucille - clean and freshly oiled - against the beside table as the woman almost tripped over herself to obey. So frightened she gave the air an unpleasant edge. So very different from the purity of true fear. This was rank and unsatisfying. Like the man couldn't even get _that_ right.

There was an _art_ to fear.

To terror.

Negan had the demented thoughts and the willpower to see them through.

But none of the raw talent.

He didn't move when they brought Daryl into the room wearing a stained sweat-suit and heavy iron chains that clinked a song into the eaves as two of Negan's men stuffed him into the over-sized dog kennel in the corner of the room. Face lined and almost gaunt in the half-light as Negan told the woman to get undressed 'like she meant it.' Ignoring the hate that shone clear underneath the blood and filth crusting Daryl's face as the man's knees knocked painfully against the bars of his cage.

He didn't move when the muffled slap of flesh against flesh ricocheted from the bed as Negan delighted in making Daryl watch. And in the interests of following the same theme, similarly he didn't move when the woman's eyes went wide over the curve of Negan's shoulder and _screamed_.

"What the shit!?"

He stepped forward in a halo of spreading darkness as the woman scrambled to cover herself and Negan all but dove off the bed to grab Lucille.

"Who the fuck are-"

Daryl jerked like he'd been electrocuted. Like he was truly awake for the first time in days. For the first time since the clearing and the blood and the stale echoes of wood meeting flesh and bone, over and over and over-

"Eugene! What are you- where-"

The blunt edges of his teeth gleamed in a shark-like smile.

"Consider this a rescue," he told him. Tossing him the key to the padlock he'd taken off one of the guard only a half hour before. Only turning back to the matter at hand when he was sure it'd landed within reach. Confident that Daryl could do the rest. "Amongst other things."

The jeans Negan had slipped on were slung low over his hips. Highlighting the definition and a distinct lack of scars that his men all seemed to have in spades.

"Well, look what we have here. The cavalry!" Negan declared with a snort. Giving him a good look - navel to nose - noting his lack of weapons and the deflated looking pack-sack on the floor beside him - before narrowing his eyes. "Though, you might want a refund on this one, Daryl. Because for the life of me, I don't think I have faith in this guy."

He swallowed the dark little chuckle that followed the man's words.

He was going to eat him alive.

"Still, looks like you got past my men...like- all of them. So, kudos for that."

 _Gods, he was still talking._

 _And the others thought_ _ **he**_ _had a mouth on him?_

Instead of replying he turned his gaze towards the woman who was still rolled up in the sheets. Eyes glinting with fear and uncertain tears but clearly catching on to the shifting atmosphere as her gaze flicked from him to Negan rapidly.

"Leave," he told her. Making Daryl look up from the mess of chains and padlocks. He didn't blame him. Because he sounded nothing like himself. Nothing like the shy awkward Eugene he'd worked for years to perfect. There were no fancy words. No over sharing. Just darkness and steel and a thousand sharp violent little things that quite honestly changed the picture considerably.

Lucille swished through the air like a tell. Her barbed wire teeth glinting.

"Nah, you stay for this darling," Negan purred, bare feet curling slightly as the man slowly leaned down to retrieve his belt. "I think you need a reminder of how things work around here, darling. Simon figures I gave you the soft sell when you were brought up to speed on how things work here. And you know what- maybe I did. You wanted to be here...to be safe, don't you? So what's the problem, huh? There needs to be consequences for not doing your damn job, am I right?"

The belt was above Negan's head and ready to fall - making pantomime shadows across the woman's pale skin - when he stopped it with just a word.

"Your technique is flawed."

Every muscle in Negan's back pulled tight. Letting go of a singular barking laugh as he turned around to face him. Belt lowering in inches until the danger was passed and the man's attention was on him again.

"So, where's the crew? Gotta say I didn't think Rick had the balls left to rub together to try something like this so soon," the man mused, scratching at the stubble on his chin as he took a calculated step forward. "Must be losing my touch."

He didn't move. Standing his ground as Negan took another step. Eyes slanting dark and perhaps mildly impressed when he showed no outward sign of fear.

"They aren't here," he said pleasantly. Feeling his knuckles crack under the skin as Daryl and the woman shared a lightening glance from across the room. "I didn't want to risk their involvement. I came alone."

"You didn't want to risk- _shit,_ _mullet._ Are you saying this is all you? _Damn._ Now this _is_ interesting. Maybe I took the wrong pet home after all. Look at this fuck! Bold as brass, no weapons. No nothing. I like it."

The man swayed another step closer.

Then another.

 _Almost._ _  
_  
"So, that's what this is, huh? A one-man rescue mission?" Negan hummed, thoughtful. Not looking at all concerned at the thought. "And my men? I'm guessing there's a good reason no one came running after that fucking banshee snapped one off?"

He inclined his head, conscious of the jingle of chains as Daryl unlocked the last padlock. Untangling the thick chains from around his neck and legs before starting on cage lock. Cursing when it didn't budge. Wrong keys.

 _Ah, just as well._

He didn't exactly want anything getting in the away at this point anyway.

"We won't be interrupted."

"I'm _impressed_. Career day had officially been extended! So, let's make a deal huh? Let's work something out," Negan proposed, licking his lips salaciously like the entire thing gave him pleasure. "What about a trade, hmmm? Daryl goes home safe and sound and you stay with me. Hell, I'll even throw in feisty little Michele here to sweeten the deal. She stays around here much longer and my boot heel is going to be going places, if you get my drift. What do you say?"

He said nothing. Animal-aware of the gap between them closing. Of Daryl trying to get his attention. And of the girl – _Michelle_ – being the only one of the three that finally seemed to be catching on. Realizing that she was about to see every terrible thing she'd ever wished on another human being come true in front of her eyes. And she'd already decided not to look away.

"Not good enough, huh? You're seriously playin' hard ball with me? After what I did to your little friends and to ol' Daryl here? Fuck- you _do_ have balls!"

He was stalling.

 _Obviously._

The words and intent behind them were clear. Sincere. But the man was extending the moment unnecessarily. Hoping that someone might come looking. Hoping he could turn the tables a bit. The corner of his lip twitched upwards at the thought. A wish which was remote in the extreme considering the nerve gas he'd flooded the compound with. At least not for another few hours. There would be people he missed no doubt, he hadn't gassed the area around Negan's quarters for the exact reason of confronting him. But if there were others still up and about, it was clear that getting to Negan wasn't a priority for them.

That was the problem of leading through fear.

It didn't exactly inspire loyalty.

Obedience? Definitely.

But loyalty and respect were earned.

Not bought.

Like friendship.

Trust.

Love.

Sometimes even hatred, if he was being level with himself.

But understandably, that was probably just an Addams thing.

"Entering into an accord with you in order to secure Daryl's release isn't necessary. Nor is your permission. But if your wish is for this to devolve into fisticuffs, I am open to the challenge," he remarked, bored. Shrugging his shoulders in a readying way as the muscles in his neck popped. "In fact, I welcome you to try."

 _It'd been a long time since he'd let himself go._

 _Since he'd allowed himself to-_

"Eugene, what you doing?" Daryl hissed from his corner cage. Baggy sweatshirt gaping at the neck. But not enough to hide the orange and white painted 'A' on the front.

Negan laughed, gesturing with his bat as a muscle in the woman's jaw tensed behind him.

"Let him speak. He's the one that decided he was good enough to move up to the adults table. Go on... Eugene. _Christ_ , Daryl and Eugene. I really did end up in the asshole of the country, didn't I? _Jeeeesus_."

His eyes narrowed as the man bowed forward, hips tilting in a way to direct attention downward. Exactly around crotch level to be precise. Posturing. Just like he had in the clearing.

"Normally, at this point, I would offer you my respect. You've built an impressive empire here. A systematic structure of self-enslavement and part of me can certainly see the appeal. But the truth is, you don't deserve respect. You're a lonely imitation. Most sadists know better. Like my Great Aunt Lobelia for one," he pointed out easily, ignoring Negan's cocked head and slowly thinning smile as he pressed forward, eager to get to the big finish.

Self control had never exactly been his strong suit.

"But all that I could have set aside if you hadn't killed my friends. I would have been content to watch you blunder on like the pesky irritation you are until the inevitable happened. When your men finally realize they're stronger together than with you there to divide them. Personally, I don't think you're up for those type of odds, correct?"

Daryl had started kicking at the lock on the dog cage. Movements feverish and pleasantly violent as he stared Negan down from the dwindling space. Feeling the feathering air from each swing of the bat haze across his face like the phantom ghost of blood spatter.

"You know. I never had many friends. Normal ones. Or what your kind would consider normal, anyway. Well, maybe not you," he amended. Getting the impression that the apocalypse hadn't so much changed Negan rather than it'd set him free. "You see, I'm different. _My family is different._ And because of that, making friends outside the clan was always… _difficult._ "

A dark little voice whispered when Negan's eyes narrowed.

Saying _delicious_ things.

Things that he'd been craving for a long time.

"I had it better than most. The genetics of my branch of the family tree were more forgiving, I suppose. My second cousin, Lumpy Addams is basically a poster boy for what abnormalities can pop up, even generations down the line. Not like that ever stopped him- he's still quite the ladies man, or so I hear. But being like I am, it was hard to just strike up new acquaintances. Especially with my- _particularities_. Abraham and Glenn were two of them. They were my friends and you killed them. Worse, you killed them without honor or even professional flair. They were _mine_ , and _you took them_."

The last part left his lips in a growl. Vicious and feral-wild in a way that hushed the room an octave further than should have been humanly possible.

 _But that was the point, wasn't it?_

 _He wasn't human._

 _Not exactly._

"But all that being equal, you also made a _very_ large mistake."

"Is that so?" Negan drawled, frown lines deepening into pitted craters despite his tone remaining the same. Light and confident-crass. Swishing Lucille upwards in a single, fluid motion that highlighted the barbs of her teeth in the low light.

He could taste the tension condensing.

Knowing just when the moment was going to break and-

"Is there a point to your little sob story. Or can I get to the best part?" Negan hummed. The words coinciding with two very important things. First, him finally being in range of the bat. And second, the moment Negan did _exactly_ what he'd been expecting all along.

He caught the bat in mid-air on the downswing. Feeling the glorious frisson of pain from the barbed-wire and the meaty _th-thwock_ of the impact like they were one animal before he firmed his hand around the base and yanked. Pulling Lucille completely out of the man's grip as Negan roared a negative. Callused palms grasping at empty air as he merely stood there - staring at him with dark-hooded eyes. Waiting until he had the man's undivided attention before-

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – There will be two more chapters.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Walking Dead or The Addams Family. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

 **Authors Note #1:** Crossover with the Addams Family, because fuck logic, that's why. Set in a post 7x01. Could be a considered a sequel to my other work in this au/crossover universe: "Family Values (and the wonders of biology)."

 **Disclaimer:** Grief/loss/healing, depression, adult language, canon appropriate violence, blood and gore, Eugene goes ham. Please keep in mind that this story will be dark and a bit sadistic in that 'Addams Family' way.

 **Ruin me (like every good tragedy) with the sharp of your teeth**

 _ **Chapter Three**_

The bat snapped in half with a shower of raw splinters and a lingering wooden scream.

Negan's jaw dropped, caught in the act of reaching out. Lips yawning stupidly while on the flip side, Daryl and Michelle seemed to have stopped breathing entirely. Filling the space with possibility as his entire being strummed itself up into a righteous chorus.

He let the pieces drop with relish, grinning manically.

 _His was singing without words._

Coming back to life in real time.

Like a dusty computer slowly whirling itself through a system reboot.

His hunger was freshly fed and already screaming for more.

Screaming for blood.

For retribution.

Divine intervention.

Vengeance.

 _All of it._

"You aren't listening," he rasped, infusing each and every word with a cold, toneless sort of death as this time _he_ was the one who advanced. Driving him back _two, three, four, five_ steps until Negan's back rebounded off the wall and he used the moment of confused panic to jerk forward. Headbutting him viciously as someone screamed and Negan's head slammed off the wall with the sheer force of it. Feeling the _snap-snap-snap_ of breaking bones reverberate against his skin as the man yelled out hoarsely. Crumpling to the ground like a bag of wet cement.

The after-image of Abraham's slumped body tried to blind him then. Forcing him to go by scent alone as the rank stink of Negan's fear piped bitter and high in the recycled air. Sensing the ripples underneath his feet as the man stumbled upright. Clutching at his face as blood pitter-pattered across the concrete floor.

"Your mistake was letting me live," he growled, kicking the remnants of the wooden bat out of range as powerful thighs closed the gap far more quickly than most would give him credit for. "You should've let your men beat me to death in that clearing."

Negan took a swing at him. And just for shits and giggles he allowed it to connect. Baring his teeth in an inhuman smile as the bones in the man's hand shattered. Crunching together like crisp fall leaves before he brought his gaze back to where Negan was using the wall to hold himself upright. Cradling his fist with dawning wide-eyes that followed the movement of his lips as he lisped his usual accent into the building climax.

"My turn."

* * *

He lost control, he could admit to that.

Especially in retrospect.

He'd never been as vicious or hungry as the rest of his family.

Which of course had led to it's fair share of familial discord.

He preferred different avenues, different methods.

But this?

It felt a whole lot like three or so decades of bottled up _everything_.

* * *

He was a human juggernaut of grief and rage.

And knowingly or not, Negan had finally let him off his leash.

* * *

He was laughing- _laughing_ as Negan staggered back. Spitting up blood and broken teeth as he fell backwards. Face a mess of torn cartilage and glinting bone-shards as Daryl yelled wordlessly in the backdrop. Shaking at the bars of the cage in a way that made him uncertain if he was cheering him on or trying to curl away. Still prey to that instinctive animal urge to cower in the face of a dangerous predator. _To give way._ To show deference just as much as terror. The only one in the room who was silent was the woman and even then her expression was receptive underneath the horror – anticipatory.

He wasn't the only one that wanted this.

That _needed_ this.

"People like you give the term psychopath a bad name," he hissed. slamming his hand down on the man's shoulder before hauling him upright. Dragging him by the naked point of his shoulder. So similar to how the man had grabbed Rick before they'd driven off in the RV that the parallel nearly gave him whiplash.

But this time Negan pinged off the wall and staggered more or less upright. Howling in pain when the uppercut he delivered with his good arm proceeded to shatter every bone in that hand as well. Meanwhile, he barely felt the impact.

"You took something that wasn't yours to take," he growled, letting the man skitter away, cursing. Tugging vainly at the doorknob at the other end of the room he'd already made sure to disable. "They were not yours. Glenn. Abraham. They were _mine_. _Ours_."

He wasn't sure when, but Daryl had stopped yelling.

Alerted only by the gradual absence of sound.

He didn't know if that was a bad thing or not.

More to the point, he wasn't sure if he even cared.

He was mildly interested, and perhaps even a bit impressed, when Negan pulled a belt knife and squared up. Slashing at him – left, right, right, up and left again – until the last one found purchase. Slicing viciously across his ribs in a manner that would have incapacitated anyone else.

But not him.

In his case the strong barrel of his chest and thickness of his skeletal structure deflected most of the weight behind the thrust. Forcing the knife to glance away at the last second and score instead against his ribs. Slicing through his shirt and jacket to nick daintily at the skin like a sharp little kiss as Negan's face ruined itself with an incredulous expression.

"That's fucking impossible! What the fuckin'-"

He ignored the words. They were immaterial and distracting. Choosing instead to look at results of his creation as he caught the man's eyes and took in the ruin of his face with a thrill of darkening pleasure. The steady drip of blood from his mouth and nose, the ivory of crackling bone and the slow slither of snot that was dripping down to coat the seam of his lips. It was beautiful and he was committing it all to memory.

"Look out! Eugene!"

He looked down at the knife in Negan's hand with varying degrees of interest when Daryl called his attention to it. Finding something intriguing in the way Negan's eyes followed him. Wondering what was he was thinking. Wondering what his next play would be. Wondering-

He was so invested in the romanticism of it that he almost missed the best part.

He didn't try and stop him when Negan lunged again. Sinking the dagger deep into the padded bulk of his side the same moment he caught the man by the collar. Lifting him up in the air with one thick arm as he laughed humorlessly, ignoring the distant blossom of pain as an entirely different sort of pleasure mounted.

"You wanted us on our knees, didn't you?" he spat, slapping the man roughly when he tried to make a grab for the knife in his side and try again. Tightening his hold until Negan's feet kicked out – thudding against his body again and again as blunt nails scrabbled where he had him by the throat. Slowly crushing his windpipe as Negan wheezed a plead – or something that sounded like one anyway.

"W-w-hat are- you?"

He closed his eyes, breathing it in. An animal of base desires, but fine, feral-edged taste. Enjoying the richness of it as the moment plateaued and Negan started slapping desperately at his arm. Coating the humid-warm between them with the sweetness of his despair. The growing realization that this was it – the end. And that there was no light coming to collect him at the end of the dark, warping tunnel he'd created for himself.

But he was still fighting. Even now, Negan was wrenching for air with fractured, wheezing gasps that were threatening to make things complicated for him south of the border – so to speak. Infusing the air with the tones of his death as the wildness in his blood reveled in it.

It'd been a long time since he'd done anything like this.

And all broken apart like he was?

 _Well-_

Lets just say Negan certainly painted a pretty picture.

Presentation was, after all, everything.

"Different," he answered curtly, loosening his grip around Negan's throat a fraction before he did the only thing that felt right in the moment. He snapped forward and set his teeth into the man's neck.

The blade still sheathed in his side jostled and jerked as Negan spasmed in place. Screaming and thrashing and fountaining red as he buried his teeth deep and clamped down. Tearing the man's throat clear out as someone in the room - Negan or maybe even himself – let go of a thin, needy little whine.

There was blood running down his throat in thick, sluggish rivulets. Smeared over his cheeks and chin as he dragged his tongue across the seam of his lips. Momentarily decadent in his enjoyment as his free hand fumbled for the knife and pulled it out of his side. Not bothering to pause for dramatic effect before he arced up and buried it deep in the asshole's heart. Pulverizing the straining arteries with the sheer force of the impact as the arterial spray from the man's torn up throat bathed him in waves of warm iron-red.

"Sic gorgiamus allos subjectatos nunc," he snarled. Tipping his chin in salute to the distant sky before he let the body drop, limp and gurgling across the bloody concrete at his feet.

It was over.

* * *

"Eugene-"

There was still blood coating across his tongue when he crossed the room and broke open the lock with the blunt edge of his hand. Watching it crumple to the floor with a defeated sound as Daryl kicked himself free from the cage with an aborted roll. Hissing and clutching at his shoulder as he looked up at him through the strings of his hair. Guarded. Haunted. Relieved.

"Where're the others? Rick?"

He swallowed Negan's red. Cognizant of the last of it trickling down his throat as he made to answer. Making no move to reach for him or do anything out of turn as the dog caged rattled angrily. Propelled across the floor away from them by one angry swipe of Daryl's foot.

"It's just me. I couldn't- I didn't want to risk anyone else," he answered honestly, hands slick. Oily and coated as Negan's body cooled in the foreground. Wondering what Daryl saw when he focused on him – really focused - or if there was anything to see under the thick coating of drying red that seemed to cover him from chin to pant-legs.

The woman on the bed shifted. Eyes darting from him, to Daryl, the body, then back to him again. Licking her lips with a shaky jerk as glossy nails clenched around the edge of the headboard.

"Take us with you…please."

He cocked his head, listening to the undertones and the prideful fear that lurked underneath. Deciding that he liked her, all things said and done. There was a sullen sort of spirit there. A will to survive that'd gotten her here, but not in a way that would have ultimately satisfied Negan when it all came down to it.

Negan had wanted to be loved just as much as he'd been feared.

But the truth was, the two were incompatible.

You couldn't fear what you loved.

You couldn't love what you feared.

Not really.

"Take who?" he questioned, only realizing there was blood matted in his hair as well when it slapped wetly against his cheek. Impressed with her resolve when she looked him dead in the eye and didn't flinch.

"The other women. The freak kept them up all holed up like they were his personal harem or some shit," Daryl grunted, tugging at the neck of his sweat suit as the stale of sweat and old vomit rose from him in waves. "Most of 'em had no choice neither. Some of 'em had it worse. Some were only with him to keep their people safe."

His eyebrow rose despite himself. Something told him _'kinky'_ wasn't the right response here. Instead, he swallowed his particular brand of ghoulish humor and helped her down from the bed. Saying nothing when the sheet around her waist dropped and she moved unashamed to the pile of clothing on the other side of the mattress.

"Whether you gain entry to our community or are turned away later is not our call to make," he explained at she got dressed. "But if you want to take that chance I suggest we extricate those we want to save and strip the place of all the supplies we can before the others wake up."

Daryl's expressed tightened. But Michelle just came out and said it as she shrugged into her sundress and made a grab for a pale-yellow sweater with shiny pearl buttons.

"Don't you have anymore gas? What you used to take out his men?"

"I do," he returned, glancing down at Daryl to make sure he was still following only to catch him looking. _Staring._ Trying to figure it all out. Piece together what he missed and make everything else make sense. He wished him good luck on that, truly. He knew from experience that the process was never exactly a pretty one.

"Then what's the problem? Shouldn't we have loads of time? There are tons of supplies, more than we can carry. More than we have trucks for- we should-"

"The bombs I set around the perimeter will detonate before dawn regardless of if we are here or not," he pointed out without any real emotion. Having no real opinion on the matter until Daryl caught his eye again and he found himself grudgingly adding- "it was a fail safe. In case something went wrong. This ended tonight, one way or another. For-"

She blinked. Long hair falling in front of her eyes before she pushed it back.

"Bombs? What do you mean, _bombs?!_ "

But he was still looking at Daryl. Letting everything else rest before ultimately deciding to take the plunge. Extending his hand – bloody and laced with barb-wire cuts - to help him to his feet. Honestly wondering, if after everything, Daryl would take it.

He considered what would happen if he didn't as the itch of cooling blood settled across his skin.

What would happen - _what it would mean_ – if he did.

If-

He was more surprised than anything when Daryl eventually did. Nodding jerkily as his lips firmed into an exhausted line. Giving him just enough to know they were still on the same page as the curve of Daryl's chest bumped against his own. Helping him up before their hands were falling away again. Empty, but warm in a way that made him dare to hope that maybe- just maybe- things might be okay after all.

"Lets go home."

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – One more chapter to go, stay tuned.

 **Reference:**

"Sic gorgiamus allos subjectatos nunc," meaning- "we gladly feast on those who would subdue us." This is the Addams' Family motto/crest from the first movie.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Walking Dead or The Addams Family. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

 **Authors Note #1:** Crossover with the Addams Family, because fuck logic, that's why. Set in a post 7x01. Could be a considered a sequel to my other work in this au/crossover universe: "Family Values (and the wonders of biology)."

 **Disclaimer:** Grief/loss/healing, depression, adult language, canon appropriate violence, blood and gore, Eugene goes ham. Please keep in mind that this story will be dark and a bit sadistic in that 'Addams Family' way.

 **Ruin me (like every good tragedy) with the sharp of your teeth**

 _ **Chapter Four**_

He made himself scarce after the initial explanations and a brief reunion. Introducing Michelle and the other men and women who'd followed them from the Saviors compound – at least the ones worth saving – before they were grudgingly accepted and paired off with the others for rehousing.

He didn't want to be there when Daryl told them.

Told them what he'd done.

What he was.

Normally he wouldn't shy away from the consequences of his actions or the inevitable pride that came along with them. But this was different. This was family. _His family._ The one he'd chosen for himself when the world finally decided to get interesting. And now he was probably going to lose them.

Oh, they were grateful, he knew that much.

Of course they were.

The look on everyone's face when he and Daryl had emerged from the misty gloom had been enough to make it all worth it. Even the messy, lonely part he knew was going to come after the euphoria. They'd been perfect. A blood-spattered nightmare of pale skin, bleeding wounds and exhaustion. And they'd been alive. Gloriously, painfully, _alive_.

Rosita had even run at him, cussing him out in a flurry of Spanish. Tossing herself right into his chest – just like he'd fantasied about a hundred times. Arms wrapped so tight around his neck that it momentarily cut off his airway and threatened to make things interesting south of the border - so to speak.

Their entourage had been a bit harder to explain.

But thankfully, Daryl had taken care of that.

Turns out Negan hadn't been very popular at all.

Not even among his own.

There had been no real loyalty there.

Only fear.

Which didn't exactly make for strong ties when everything was said and done.

One by one, everyone orbited around checking base. Touching. Laughing. Talking. Crying. Embracing. Making relieved sounds and small, bittersweet smiles. Calling him ridiculous things like 'brave' and worse- 'a hero'. They meant well, but it just made the reality of what came next a thousand times worse because he couldn't help but memorize every single moment. Immortalizing them in his memory so that he could call them up in leaner times. To think of them with the sort of fondness they'd managed to inspire in him over time.

He slipped away as soon as he'd seen an opening.

And as a form of retreat, it wasn't even the closest thing to being dignified.

* * *

He was in the middle of quietly packing everything he owned when he caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror. Blood-stained and filthy. He held back a conflicted cringe. _Christ, he'd forgotten._ On one hand, the Addams part of him cooed that he'd never looked better. That he'd never so strongly resembled the ancient potential of his glorious lineage. But the other part – the part that'd been slowly tainted by normalcy over the past two years - realized that it was just another tell the others wouldn't have been able to miss.

A normal person would have probably been curled up somewhere, stomach-sick and wracked with guilt - or at the very least shock. They would be flat and rocking in a shower, scrubbing like Macbeth on already raw skin. _Out, out damned spot!_

But not an Addams.

An Addams wouldn't shower for a week.

An Addams would have a portrait painted to memorialize it in all it's glory.

An Addams would enjoy every moment of it's slowly putrefying richness.

But him?

His middle ground had been forgetting it was even there.

Negan's blood had smudge-dried across his skin in thick arterial arcs. The kind that needed a shower and a good scrubbing to get ride of. He knew that much from experience. His eyes flicked over to the shower before ranging back to his expression. Realizing somewhere along the line that he was tired as the weight of the last week pull at him in a way it hadn't in a long time.

But instead of shucking off his clothes and dialing up the water as hot as he could stand, he just leaned against the counter, tracing his tongue over his lips. Closing his eyes as he immersed himself in the taste. Wondering off-hand if one could detect the particular brand of sadism the man had subscribed to. The blood was the worst on the lower half of his face. Slathered thick and unmistakable from where he'd worried the chewed up tangle of veins and nerves before ripping out the throat with his teeth. Swallowing the piping richness as Negan's eyes watched him with dawning comprehension - blood-shot wide and fading.

 _Daryl knew._

 _Daryl had seen._

He hadn't said a word when he'd kicked the soft of Negan's leaking corpse away and crossed the room in a trail of _pat-pat-pattering_ crimson. Breaking the paddock of the iron cage with one deft hammer of his fist before helping him to his feet. He didn't have too.

Nothing that happened would change the truth he'd seen with his own eyes.

He was probably telling them all right now.

Telling them how he'd don't it.

How he'd _enjoyed_ it.

How he was different.

Dangerous.

 _Wrong._

That he was a second-time pathological liar.

That he wasn't to be trusted.

Not around them.

Not around Carl.

Not around Judith.

 _Not around anyone._

* * *

He was still standing there, staring blankly at his reflection, desperately wishing he could undo the last week and a bit in full, when Maggie appeared in the doorway behind him.

He stiffened, but didn't turn. Instead, he clung to the counter for dear life. Blunt nails etching shallow grooves into the granite before he checked himself and relented. Denying himself the sweet pain he was craving as she took a step inside the room, then another. He swallowed, _hard_. Part of him genuinely frightened by the thin, hollow-eyed wisp of her as she put her weight down with every step cautiously. Like she was still unsure her legs would hold her. Gaining strength by the day but still no where close to being healed.

He hadn't expected them to send her.

Rosita maybe.

He'd expected strong bodies and capable hands.

Rick. Tobin. Aaron. Spencer.

Michonne with her katana and Sasha with her sniper rifle.

But not her.

They watched each other for a long time without words.

Seizing each other up.

Reminiscing.

Zoning out.

He could sense the strength underneath her skin.

The kind that didn't lend itself so much to muscle and sinew, but to the more difficult stuff.

It was the stuff that kept you moving in the end.

That made you want to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

She would make a good a leader.

A good mother.

But the jury was still out on whether she'd be allowed to become either.

When she finally nodded towards the shut toilet lid, he folded down on top of the porcelain like she had the remote to his legs. Suddenly somewhere beyond exhausted as she took down a wash cloth and wetted it in the sink. Coming up to stand beside him as the sodden cloth domed water across the shining bathroom tiles.

"Let me," she murmured.

So he did.

* * *

"I saw your pack on the bed," she started. Rubbing at the caked red in growingly hard circles as the dried gore proved as difficult to wipe off as he'd feared. He wondered if that was a metaphor for something. At this point he was too drained to care. "Going somewhere?"

"I reckoned it would be more polite than waiting for you guys to ask, considerin'," he answered honestly. Hating the slight, wavering tremor in his voice that betrayed just how much he wasn't looking forward to the prospect.

 _He didn't want to go._

 _He wanted to stay._

 _He wanted-_

"Why? Why do you think you need to go?" she uttered quietly. It was a soft challenge. But a challenge nonetheless.

In his mind's eye his hand remembered the soft gush of tearing skin.

The silent scream of cells and platelets tearing.

The reverberation of tissue and bone clunking against his fist before-

"Daryl told you."

"He did," Maggie answered, one hand resting on her hip in that way she had. "He told us you saved him. That you killed Negan. That you got him and those other people out."

He shook his head, able to read between the lines. Knowing that while Daryl wouldn't have gone into detail – whether because of misplaced loyalty or merely the more evasive detriments of his less than favorable upbringing – he wouldn't have been able to skip over it either. Not after what he'd done. Not just the depraved acted he'd committed willingly and with relish. But the fact that he'd _enjoyed_ it. That it'd been the equivalent of blowing off steam and reaping his fair share of vengeance all in the same messy whirlwind of disaster. And it'd shown on his face as bright as a child on Christmas morning.

"He told you how, he told you the truth, that's enough."

"No it isn't," she insisted, setting the wash cloth down the counter as he flexed his jaw from side to side, idly checking for the dry-catch of any missed smears. "It doesn't matter how. It's over. _Done._ You did that. And now we can heal, all of us."

His tongue wet across his lower lip. Aware that by omission he was calling attention to what he wanted them to forget. That he wasn't like them. Normal. That he was different. That he didn't think like them. Didn't subscribe to the same rules or ideals or moral codes. That deep down he was wired differently- genetically, mentally, all of it. That they were not the same and yet-

She'd been so strong in the clearing. Just as strong as she was now in front of him. Owning her pain and swallowing every shade as she'd gotten to her feet and said the only thing that'd made sense to him in hours. That they had to fight him. That Negan had to die. That-

"His death should have been _yours_ , it belonged to _you_ , to Sasha," he tried to explain. Clenching his fists until the healing scabs broke open again and the warmth of his own red trickled thinly between his fingers. "I'm sorry, I should have let you. But I didn't want to risk it. I didn't want to- I _couldn't_ lose anyone else."

She sank down on her haunches in front of him. Taking him by surprise as she gathered his right fist in her hands and soothed the fading warmth of the cloth over the worst of splitting scabs.

"His death belonged to all of us. You know I can't thank you enough for it. No matter what happens or what you decide to do, I hope you know that," she said simply, lashes dark and fluttering as they graced the punched-deep hollows under her eyes. The softness of it made his throat itch but he held his ground.

This was important.

"But if you want to- if you _want_ to tell us. We'll listen. I'm not going to lie to you, the others are out there. They want answers. They want to understand. But I can tell you right now there is _nothing_ you can say that would make that backpack necessary. You're part of this family, Eugene. That hasn't changed. And family sticks together."

He expelled the breath of air he was holding in a single explosive rush. Ruffling the fringe of her short hair in a way that made her smile before he chanced a nod. Not quite believing it, but wanting to as he extended a hand and helped her rise. Holding her hand in his in what was perhaps the most delicate clasp he'd ever struggled through as her smile reflected back, tremendous and butterfly-fragile.

 _His family._

 _He couldn't deny it didn't have a certain ring to it.  
_  
"Ready?"

A hopeful smile settled across his face like a steel trap hidden in a vibrant gully-valley. Able to sense the multitude of emotions issuing from the other room. Knowing each of their scents and sounds like he did his own. The tones of Abraham and Glenn lingering but now ringing hollow – _flat_. Already slowly fading.

"I think we're both surely about to find out," he answered quietly.

He owed it to Glenn and Abraham to at least try, after all.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – This story is now complete.


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